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Friday, July 29, 2011

Help Wanted

Approaching my senior year of college, I’m having PTSD-like flashbacks to my senior year of high school and all of the “Prepare for the rest of your life” stress that is headed my way. Back then, the only information anyone was interested in was where I was going to college, what I was majoring in, and what I was planning on “doing with that.” I always ignored the assholes who asked the last question, because it seemed so far off that it didn’t even deserve recognition. Four years later, the subject has resurfaced, and unfortunately just laughing and trailing off doesn’t show much ambition on my part. The simple answer is: I want to be a writer. The simple solution is: have a more genius idea than J.K. Rowling and become a billionaire. Of course, this is easier said than done, and it never hurts to have a plan B. Luckily, there are many facets to what interests me, so I could be happy doing just about anything (except every single occupation featured on ‘Dirty Jobs’ with Mike Rowe. I’m way overqualified to be a cow poop inspector).

Infomercial spokeswoman: I don’t know anyone in this world who genuinely enjoys watching infomercials more than I do. I know the prime airtime (3-7am) so I can get my fix at any hour of the day. I watch The Magic Bullet commercial religiously, and after purchasing one, I fawn over it like my firstborn child. The loss of Billy Mays hit me hard – I miss that killer beard and explosive coked-out bellow of advertising enthusiasm every single day. It is this relentless excitement that I find so appealing, and anyone who has ever experienced an all-nighter with me knows that at my kookiest, I’m one of the most entertaining people around. I would excel at showing how assembling a contraption was SO EASY A CHILD COULD DO IT and it just takes A SNAP (cue two pieces clicking in place), and that it was DISHWASHER SAFE so there was NO MUSS NO FUSS. Infomercial people typically work with a lot of food, which is right up my alley, and even though Chef Bob had just used the serrated knife (A $50 VALUE, YOURS FREE) to slice the rotisserie chicken that had been “cooking” for ONLY 30 MINUTES I would still have a mouthgasm as soon as I took a bite because THAT’S AMAZING, IT’S SO MOIST AND FLAVORFUL. As a practiced Barker Beauty wannabe, I know how to show off a product with the flick of my wrist and the caress of my perfectly manicured fingertips, so everything seems much more impressive than it actually is. I would know how to clean EVEN THE TOUGHEST SOAP SCUM with one swift swipe of the LIGHTWEIGHT, CHEMICAL-FREE portable steamer, even though in reality it takes a few scrubs and some elbow grease courtesy of the world’s strongest man. If nothing else, I’d really just like to immerse myself in an atmosphere where talking way too loud and forcing people to scream out SET IT AND FORGET IT in unison is just the norm.

Rapper: Prepare yourself for the whitest, nerdiest, least gangsta thing anyone will say all day: I figured out the formula to becoming a successful rap star. It’s as simple as going back to fifth grade and learning about similes and metaphors. Lil Wayne might like to bill himself as the Best Rapper Alive, but he should really thank his English teacher for introducing him to the magic of such lines as, “Life is the bitch, and death is her sister/Sleep is the cousin, what a fuckin' family picture.” Who would’ve thought literary devices could be so badass? With an affinity for and amazing ability with alliteration, combined with this theory, I’d be the Shakespeare of the hip hop industry. The girl who became a YouTube sensation imitating Busta Rhymes’ section from ‘Look at me Now’ would see me as her personal Jesus after I dropped my first single, and all it would take is a simple, “I’m hot like fiah, haters sizzle like fajitas/Your new girl is fugly, yo soy bonita/I’m homemade mac and cheese and that ho is just Velveeta/Boy you need a boss bitch not some skanky ass Lolita.” Collabo with Nicki Minaj coming soon.

Costume Standby: You know when you’re watching a movie, and you notice the actor is holding a cup in his right hand, and then the shot shifts to someone else, and when it goes back to him he’s suddenly holding it in his left hand? I do. OCD is a hell of a time. There was a very bleak period in my life that I like to call Five Minutes Ago where I would be watching a movie on TV and then rush to IMDB to check the “Goofs” section to see where there were flubs and if I could catch them as I watched. As we all know, I’m a stickler for doing things right, and if Reese Witherspoon’s hair was behind her ear in the first take, you better believe that it will stay that way for every single take from here on out. The curtains in the window were open in the last shot and now they’re closed? Not on my watch, buddy. The job description for this career has to be insanely easy; there’s no way they can be looking for anyone outside the realm of obsessive, scrutinizing, psycho, and nagging. I’ve hung around my grandma enough to be all of these things and more, and although it seems like a pretty insignificant role to play in the grand scheme of Hollywood, if I can make one fellow neurotic moviegoer’s viewing experience a little less anxiety-ridden, I’d feel just as fulfilled as the guy who sells TOMS.

America’s Next Top Model: You can stop laughing now.

Real World/Road Rules Challenge Regular: If all it takes is living in a house for several months with a few hot strangers to catapult me into a lifelong job of navigating obstacle courses in exotic locations, sign me right up. I swear, between the stipends they receive for appearing on the show and the unnecessary cash they rake in for club appearances, half of those people dropped out of ITT Tech and are set for life. Their resumes flaunt skills such as “binge drinking,” “making out with girls,” “falling into water from twenty feet up,” and “obvious steroid use.” As long as we all agree to a Don’t Judge Me policy, I can totally do all of those things! The fact that I have an above average head on my shoulders would already hurl me leaps and bounds over the rest of the contestants, and then it’s pretty much a competition based on A) who screams the loudest and B) who has decent upper body strength. All I really have to do is get myself on the next season of the Real World, make an ass out of myself so I captivate audiences, secure a spot on The Challenge, and make an ass out of myself part deux so they have no excuse not to bring me back season after season for the next eight years. It’s practically fool proof. Excuse me while I go write thank you notes to Coral, Wes, Trishelle, and CT for being the biggest inspirations since Gandhi and Princess Diana.  

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